


Baptism of fire

by Maritrar



Series: Your own path [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 08:36:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15481854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maritrar/pseuds/Maritrar
Summary: You (Miss Devon- a templar trainee) are inadvertently drawn into the line of fire. In way over your head, you come out mostly unharmed. The Templars take care of you and helps you cope with the aftermath.





	Baptism of fire

**Author's Note:**

> I hav given the caracter a name in this part and will probably stick to it where I need it. I cannot for the life of me cope with writing YN etc, but feel free to change it as you read. Hope you still enjoy.

# Baptism of fire

Your weekly report is due and you make your way to Charles Lee’s office, deliberating how best to approach him about the investment you want to propose. It’s no small amount of money concerned, but the investment presents quite a few opportunities.  

If you can only make Mr. Lee hear you out. Inside the courtyard you find one of the orders more shady characters waiting idly and trading stories with a couple of lower ranked apprentices. Thomas Hickey is elbows deep in a story of a conquest he’s recently made, and by his reputation and the description of the lady’s particular skills, you gather he has been sampling one of the whorehouse’s newest asset. Your ears turn red as you try to ignore the story and Hickey’s crooked smile your way as you pick up your pace past them and into the house. in the corridor, you pause outside Mr. Lee’s office, straightening your attire. The dress you wear is a modest and conservative gray, and except for the two rows of silver buttons set in a V-shape down your bodice, the dress is unadorned and simple.

You draw a deep breath and strengthen your resolve before you knock the door and wait for the call to enter. When a voice inside calls out, you turn the knob going over the arguments in your mind while the back of your conscience is puzzled at the slight change in Mr. Lee’s voice.

Only when you enter do you realize your mistake. Lee is waiting behind the desk as usual, but standing before you in the middle of the floor is the Grandmaster himself. You have not seen him since the night of your birthday and you certainly did not expect to run into him here. He is as neatly dressed as ever, dark navy vest and coat, immaculately tailored to his body. The tricorn hat he always wears is sat atop the corner of Lee’s desk, behind him. His hands are clasped behind his back, but his eyes, his grey assessing gaze rests calmly on you.

Awkwardly, you freeze just inside the room. The carefully crafted arguments are gone from your mind the moment your eyes meet his. There’s just the faint ghost of a smile on his lips as Mr. Lee clears his voice in annoyance and you snap out of the initial shock. “I’m sorry sir. Is this a bad time? I can come back,” you blurt. Lee is just about to answer as Master Kenway beats him to it.

“Is this the weekly report you were telling me about, Charles,” he asks.

“Yes sir, it is. Come in, Miss Devon. We have been waiting.”

You make your report to him, of the mood amongst the shopkeepers in the district where gang activity is picking up. The grocer’s wife who took you aside and told you of the protection money exchanging hands and the snippet of a conversation she picked up, of the possible location of a gang headquarter. The tip of Mr. Lee’s quill stops scratching against the paper when you give him the location, and when you flick a gaze towards the Grandmaster, there is a sense of tension in him that wasn’t there before. However, none of them say anything and you are left wondering.

The room falls eerily silent except for the scratch of quill on paper as Mr. Lee finishes writing down your account. Then he lifts his gaze and meets your eyes.

“Anything else to report, Miss Devon?” he says.

“No, sir. That is all.”

“Fine. Thank you, Miss Devon.”

Just you are about to be dismissed, you take your chance to intercept.

“Sir. If I may, there is another matter that I would like to discuss.”

Lee’s eyes bore sternly into yours, but you hold your ground. It’s not ideal, raising the issue in front of Grandmaster Kenway. Lee might take it the wrong way, but haste is of the essence if this deal is to go down. It cannot wait another week.

You swallow down what nerves there are and brace the subject boldly.

“Are you familiar with mr Millner; the master carpenter down in East Village?" Lee regards you coolly as the Grandmaster walks over to the window.  

“He has fallen in debt after an accident a few months back. If he does not pay up by the turn of the month he will lose his house and the property where it sits.”

“And how is that relevant to the order? You cannot expect us to save every unfortunate soul in this city?”

“I do not, sir,” you assure him. The Grandmaster stays quiet and lets Lee assess your case. You are his charge, his responsibility after all and you know it is your task to convince Lee on your own. You are careful not to seek out Kenway’s gaze.

“The plot of land is barren, mostly rocky ground and gives little produce. However, it’s close to Fishers creek. The water supply is steady throughout the year and though the current is slow, at this point, the creek makes a bend around the property. With a little effort, it would be possible to build a canal across the back of the plot. I believe you have been searching for a suitable site for a lumber mill, and I believe this might be it.”

Mr. Lee’s gaze shifts to the Grandmaster at your side who has turned back to watch you. His hands clasped behind his back, he caches your gaze.

“What is the nature of Mr. Millners injury?” he asks.

“He lost two fingers of his left hand and was bedridden with a fewer a few days. It was enough to miss a delivery to Colonel Lispenard witch lead to the order falling dead. Without payment for the large order, he did not have the means to buy new materials, and either way his injury has partially debilitated him. However, he is skilled and knows to assess timber.”

“You mean for him to oversee the mill, once in function,” the Grandmaster states.

 Indeed that was your thought, however it is not your place to decide and for the first time of your argumentation, you stall. He seems to read your hesitation.

“By all means speak your mind, Miss Devon,” he says.

“Yes sir, that was my thought, but it’s not for me to decide.” The Grandmaster nods in thought.

“The due date is three days away, you said?”

You confirm with a silent nod and the Grandmasters attention switches back to Charles Lee.

“That gives us just enough time to make a few inquiries. Quietly, mind you. Send Mr. Gihst and Mr. Weeks along tomorrow morning.”

“Certainly, sir,” Charles says. Grandmaster Kenway lifts his gaze to yours.

“Thank you Miss Devon for bringing this to our attention,” he says. You inwardly beam at your small accomplishment while keeping a stoic mask. You might have just saved the Millners from a destitute existance. Charles Lee clears his voice to catch your attention again.

“Was there anything else, Miss Devon?”

“No sir.”

Charles scribbles something down in his ledger and does not raise his gaze to you as he dismisses you. “Continue your chores and report back in a week unless there’s anything of importance. You are dismissed. “

“Sir.”

You salute the both of them before you take your leave, exiting the room. Out in the courtyard you find another few men has joined Thomas Hickey. Shay is amongst them, standing with his back turned. Hickey’s face lights up in a malicious smile that has the others turn to find you there.

You keep a proud posture as you walk across the yard, aiming for the exit, adamant not to cower on account of Hickeys foul mouth. You’ll see Shay later, and don’t intend to seek him out here. That is until he hurries toward you the moment he lays eyes on you. You pause your step and wait for him. His hastened step falls to a stop before you, a respectful two feet away.

“Lass,” he says his voice lowered to keep your conversation private. “I was hopin' te catch ye' here. The Grandmaster has summoned us, and it mi'ht be a while 'fore I'm finished.”

“It might be later still,” you say. “I may have come across a clue to a new gang stronghold.”

“Ye did?” he says curiously and shifts his stance. His hands come to rest on his belt and the pommel of his sword, an unconscious reaction as he narrows his eyes in concentration. “Where?” he demands.

“Is it so hard to believe, that I might find a clue like that?” You’re a bit affronted at his reaction, Hickey’s saucy smile has raised your hackles and you react stronger than you normally would. Women are often overlooked and ignored and you are no exception. “Women hear things, you know, they confide in me because I am a woman.”

Shay ignores both your sore ego and your caustic reply.

“Where,” he repeats and your temper flares.

“I gave my report to the Grandmaster and Mr. Lee," you quietly bite. "You will hear from them with the rest.” You make to leave, but Shay takes your arm and gently holds you back.

“I didn’t mean it like that, lass,” he says lowly. His jaw is clenched and annoyance burning in his gaze as you look at him. Across his shoulder, you notice Hickey covertly following your interaction. Damn the man for being such a nosy gossip!

You face up to Shay and level your composure.

“Within the Tan Yards off Fiery street,” you mutter and notice the spark of alert that runs through his eyes. The same minute pause you sensed in Mr. Lee and the Grand Master when you gave your report.

“Is there something of importance there?” you ask him and Shay gathers his thoughts, finds your eyes gaging him and gives you a reticent smile.

“If Mr. Lee said nothin’, it’s not fer ye’ to know,” he says, squinting upwards at the sun to assess the time just as the door to Lee’s office opens.  The Grandmaster steps out on the porch and flicks a searching gaze over the men in the yard.  His eyes comes to rest when he finds Shay and he promptly makes his way over.

“I take it you have heard the news,” he says casting a sideway glance at you.

“Ay, sir. I ‘ave.”

“The meeting will have to wait. I want you to look into this immediately. We will adjourn at Kenway house tonight. That will give you the time you need?” 

“Ay it will. I’ll take my leave then, sir, if that’s all.”

Shay gives you a reassuring gaze before he walks away.

“Walk with me Miss Devon,” the Grandmaster says and starts across the yard. Surprised, you follow and catch up with him just as you notice Mr. Lee gathering the waiting men to inform of the delayed meeting.

Master Kenway takes you through the driveway, out onto the street where his carriage awaits. The driver promptly jumps down to open the door and unfold the step and as he does, the grand Master bids you his hand. You’re a bit uncomfortable as he aids you climbing into the carriage. After all, he is your superior, he should not be the one waiting on you.

He climbs in after and takes a seat facing you. His face is draped in shadow under the tricorn hat  and you only have the determined set of his jaw the narrow line of his mouth to deem his mood. To what purpose are you here? Where is he taking you?

He says nothing as the driver climbs to his seat, just rests those stoic grey eyes on you as he waits.  Once the carriage sets into motion he adresses you.

“The intel you served us with today is of great significance if it turns out to be true,” he says. “There is a freight of weapons due to be delivered any day now, and it is of utter importance that it does not fall into the wrong hands.” 

“Oh.” Now you understand the reason for their alarm. Fiery Street lies close to the harbor and the properties border upon a net of narrow back streets leading to the outskirt of the city.

“You see, don’t you, why I sent Shay there to investigate at once?”

He carries himself like the gentry you have grown up within, posture straight and proud, but at the same time he is so different. Master Kenway does not look down his nose at you to retain his status. He does not need to shout in order to make a point clear. His mere presence commands respect. A mere glance has done enough to silence even Hickey, if the rumor is correct, and from your own meagre experience, they are.

Quietly you nod in answer to his question.

His gaze flicks outside the window at the passing houses in the street. His tricorn hat leaves his eyes draped in shadow, impossible to read and again you wonder why you're here. The wagon rattles along the cobbled main street through the city.

“I’m sorry, sir. Where are we going?”

“I’m going back to Kenway House, but I wished to speak with you. We’ll drop you off at Fort Arsenal along the way.”

His grey, assessing eyes comes to rest on you again. It’s a little uncomfortable being the sole benefactor of his scrutiny, feeling as if you are facing some trial or test, that there is something you do not see.

“How did you learn about the misfortune of Mr. Millner?” he asks.

“His children are attending the school, two bright boys that the teacher sees great potential in. I learned of the family’s misfortune when she expressed her worry about losing them.”

He nods quietly. Keeping an eye on the school is one of your responsibilities, and you have gained the trust of the local teacher.

“And the sawmill. Who brought that idea up?”

You shift uneasily in your seat.

“I did,” you say.

 He does not say anything, just keeps you under scrutiny and stays silent. You take it as a signal to continue.

“I promised the teacher I’d see if there was anything I could do,” you elaborate, acutely aware this is not a task assigned to you, and that you may have overstepped your boundaries.

“I went there myself and talked to Mrs. Millner. She gave me the whole story and let me have a look around the property. Shay mentioned the difficulty with another plot further down; the inadequate fall of the river, but with the bend of the river there should be sufficient height difference to run a wheel on Millner’s land.”

“You deduced it by yourself,” he says. “No one set you on the idea.”

“Yes, sir. It was my idea.”

He regards you ponderingly another moment before you sense a minute softening of his expression.

“You are familiar with the requirements and the workings of a mill,” he says. “Where ever did you pick that up?”

The carriage jolts and before you can answer the question, his attention shoots outside. Instantly, his demeanor shifts.

“We are driving the wrong way,” he says. “This is not the way to Fort Arsenal. Miss Devon, ready your arms.”

He pulls out his guns and starts loading as you clear the hilt of the stiletto knife you carry. He flicks a gaze your way.

“You know how to handle a gun, do you not?” he says and hands you one without waiting for reply. The carriage jolts and rattles as it speeds along the street, the speed frantick and frightening. He flicks the powder bag shut and tucks it away, puts the gun back in its holster, then scans the outside through the small window. 

“The moment the carriage slows down, we get out," he says. "Do you understand?” Even in this situation he keeps himself composed.

“Yes, sir,” you manage. Your heart is racing in your chest as your hand grips the hilt of the gun. Is he really serious? Are you being lead into an ambush? You pray to God he is mistaken, but his demeanor tells you otherwise.

He senses your hesitation and catches your gaze. The light of deadly intent there cements your understanding.

“This is not a test, Miss Devon,” he says. “Do not hesitate, for whoever is waiting will show you no mercy.”

You swallow dryly and nod. He watches the dwellings racing past the windows then turns back to you a fleeting second.

“If you get the opportunity, you run. Do you understand?” The carriage slows before you get to answer.

“Get ready,” he says. “Now!”

You jump out just as the carriage screeches to a halt and stumble before you get your bearings. 

You are in an enclosed yard, the driveway you just came through closing with a thump and a latch sliding in from the other side. You turn your head and see your captors closing in from the other side, already clashing their swords with the Grandmaster. You just manage to count five, before one of them narrows his eyes at you and starts towards you.

His lips are drawn up in a sneer as he unsheathes his sword.  Six, your panicked mind muses, you have to take into account whoever locked you in.

“And what do we have here?” the man spits. “A fucking Templar whore?”

He flicks the sword once over in his hand and you know your stiletto knife is of no use against the longer blade. Shakily, you raise the gun, keeping your arm straight like you’ve been taught, finger on the trigger and press lightly.

You just recognize your error in the mocking leer on your assailants face before the gun goes off, too soon. The shot rings out and does not harm him, but to his and your surprise, another of the goons crumples to the ground further down the yard.

Your opponent growls in anger as he sees his comrade fall.

“You little bitch,” he says. “You’re going to pay for that.” And then he lashes out for you.

The claw of panic that grips you as you realize you’re in way over your head threatens to overtake you. Your instincts scream to turn around and bolt, but instead you bite your teeth and trust your training. As the blade swings toward you, you deflect the blow with your shorter blade and slip to the side. You’re barely able to avoid the next swing as he swipes the blade for your neck and you step back.

The man curses loudly as you deflect another swing, holding onto your blade with both hands to counter the force of his blows. Determination flares in his eyes as he lifts the blade anew and you know you’re in for it. The blade swings at you fierce and fast, first left, then right, then left again. You dodge the first and deflects the next, but the third rips through the fabric of your sleeve before you manage to wring the blade away using your own.

There is a searing pain on your skin. Your assailant’s face cracks into a malicious smile at your startled expression as you inadvertently step back. Quickly you raise your blade again as another series of blows rain down on you. It’s too fast and too strong, your own strength failing fast. As he nips your skin again, you cry out in fear, and the goon laughs harshly.

You cannot keep this up, your arms are cramping up from the effort of staving him off. Very soon you’ll be backed up against the wall. You try to change your direction, to move away from being cornered, but every time you do, he reigns a blow that turns you back. A shot rings out, and you know the Grandmaster is caught up in the fight. There’s no one to help you and suddenly your back is up against the wall.

With a flick of his blade, your stiletto is sent flying and then the tip of his sword hovers just under your chin. The cold metal presses lightly against your skin as he catches your gaze. You don’t appreciate the light playing in his eyes as he regards you, but you find you’re not surprised and your heart sinks. The sound of your own racing heart is all you can hear, and when he suddenly turns his head you don’t understand. Then another shot rings out and he crumples to the ground.

Suddenly the yard is full of horses, their hooves shaking the ground and turning up the dust. In a haze, you watch the mangled features of your enemy, lying at your feet. A section of his face is missing, shattered parts of meat and bone melting into a horrid smile forever etched to his face. His blood stains the ground where you stand. There is so much of it.

The sight stays with you even as a person steps in front of you. He grabs your arms and shakes you, says something you don't register. There is so much blood.

A sharp smack to your cheek and the normally amused features of Thomas Hickey’s face comes into focus, set in stern and rigid lines as you finally recognize him.

“Come on, Lass,” he says. “We need to go.”

He drags you away from the carnage that is the yard, lifts you onto a waiting horse and climbs up behind you. Then he grabs you in a tight embrace and spurs the horse. Soon you are galloping out of the courtyard and down the narrow streets. Beside you, you register several sets of hooves thundering to the ground and wonder if the Grandmaster is still with you. You lift your gaze and find him a few paces in front. With you are several of the men under Hickey’s command, along with Lee and another few high ranking Templars.

The fast ride comes to an abrupt halt in front of a large manor you recognize as Kenway house. Hickey jumps down off the horse and catches you as you slide down from the saddle and land on unsteady legs.

“Easy, there,” he says quietly. “Are you all right, lass?”

You find his eyes watching you very closely and you pull yourself together. Danger comes with the territory and if you want respect, you cannot fall apart now. Steeling your heart, you meet his gaze levelly and nod.

Behind him, Grandmaster Kenway hurries up the stairs.

“In my office, now,” he says. “Hickey, see to Miss Devon and join us when you’re done.”

“Ay, sir,” Hickey answers, no trace of the mischievous bastard you normally distaste. “Come along, lass,” he says, and you pick up your skits as you ascend the stairs, noticing how the hemline is drenched in blood, how your gown is shredded in several places.

He takes you into the kitchen, where your appearance causes a right ruckus until Hickey has thrown out anyone but the cook. She makes you sit while grumbling under her breath about letting young women fight men’s battles. Your heart is thrumming in itchy unease and her complaints soon gets on your nerves.

“I chose this life, myself,” you say out loud and meet her steely gaze. It effectively shuts her up and beside you, Thomas Hickey sniggers quietly.

He has gathered rolls of bandage on the table where you sit and now he motions to see your arm.  Only then do you sense the stickiness of your sleeve and the burn of pain along your skin. Tentatively you place your injury in his care, watches as he shreds the rest of your sleeve to reveal the cut underneath. Hickey pokes around the edges, it’s not too deep but nearly four inches long and bleeds freshly. He seems satisfied, though as he swiftly uncorks a bottle and drenches the wound with the content. The pain is _searing,_ and you barely manage to bite back the scream that presses up your throat.

“That’s the worst, done with,” he says and starts wrapping your arm in a bandage. His work is surprisingly neat and tidy, so uncharacteristic for him, but you start to realize what Grandmaster Kenway sees in him.

The flow of blood stems as the wrapping encases the wound and the pain lessens a bit.

“Thank you, Mr Hickey,” you say and make to stand up, but Hickey lays a heavy hand on your shoulder and stops you.

“We’re not quite done yet, lass,” he says and grabs your other arm. There are splits in the fabric several places down your other arm too, where a blade has nicked the fabric. He examines each one, but deems the scratches there all right as he cleans them, but leaves them unwrapped. Lastly, he dabs the wet cloth at a wound on your forehead, - when on earth did that happen? – before he addresses the Cook.

“Find the girl a dress she can borrow,” he says.

Reluctantly the cook relents and leaves the kitchen. The room grows warily silent as Hickey finishes up. Then he sits back and watches you quietly.

“Are there any other injuries, ones that we have not dealt with?” he asks.

Uneasy at his question you avert your gaze and shake your head. This is not acceptable though, as you find him gripping your chin with a sigh.

“Answer me straight, or I’ll have to make sure, myself.”

“No,” you answer a little too quickly and his brows furrow in consideration.

“No, really, there’s no need. I’m fine. You were there in time.”

Slowly, Hickey nods, just before the cook returns carrying a black gown.

Hickey steps outside as you change. You told Hickey you were fine, but as you find yourself alone in the kitchen, the soreness of your arms reminds you of the fight, of how overpowered you were, how weak your defense was; how you lost. You would have been dead, were it not for the rescue party appearing when they did.

Itchy with unease you dress in a hurry and step out onto the stairs where Hickey waits, leaned against the bannister. Moving is a relief even if you feel as if there are ghosts breathing down your neck. The image of your dead assailant flicks before your inner eye, vivid and gruesome. With it the scent that lined the air appears; the sharp tang of blood and the other unspeakable matters spilled at the edge of sharp blades and you cringe.

Suddenly you find yourself in the Grandmasters large office. The eyes of five people turn your way and you pull yourself together as you notice Hickey reporting of your injuries.

“The cut on her forearm needs to be looked at by the doctor, other than that she’s got some smaller nicks and some bruisin’, but nothing too serious, though.” He flicks a gaze your way, and the eyes of the others follow.

“I suspect it’s been quite a shock though,” he comments and you recognize the slight pull on his lips; of the saucy smile you detest. Another reason why you can’t lower your guard.

“Thank you Hickey,” the Grandmaster says.

He looks his usual level self where he sits behind his desk. He has changed his attire, a pale blue silk west and a matching, embroidered coat and even though there is a slight discoloration of his left temple, there is nothing in his demeanor that tells of the battle you’ve just been through.

As if this is just another day in his life. He beckons you closer and you numbly step in front of his desk.

“I’m sorry to lay further strain on you, miss Devon, but there are a few things we need to know,” he says. “I need your account of the incident, to make sure there is nothing that escapes us. Please if you would tell us in your own words what you saw.”

You swallow dryly and compose yourself before the task. Going through the details is not what you want, your mind basically screaming in protest, but this is your task. You recount what you remember, the men and their positions, your failed shot; the one that accidentally took down one of the others and the fight that consumed your attention for the rest of the battle. It’s embarrassing, recounting your defeat and admit that it consumed your entire attention in front of all these men, but lying is even worse and you would never stoop that low.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s not much, but I did not notice anything else,” you say and bite the inside of your cheek, swearing you will do better next time. The Grandmaster nods gravely.

“Six people,” he says and flicks his eyes at Charles Lee.

“The gate was bolted from the outside,” Lee states.

“And there were only five dead bodies…” Grandmaster Kenway looks severe as his eyes lifts to Hickey.

“Thomas,” he says. “Find out what you can and report back by first light. The rest of you are dismissed. I’ll send for you when Shay is back.”

Unsteadily, you turn to leave with the others, desperate to find somewhere secluded where you can fall apart and yet dreading the prospect of being alone. When will Shay return, you wonder briefly, but then Grandmaster Kenway calls you back.

“Miss Devon, please stay.”

As the Templars leave, you turn back to find the Grandmaster writing a couple of missives that he folds over and seals with wax as they are done. You expect him to ask you to deliver them, but when he raises his gaze, he hands them to the footman who stands quiet sentinel by his side before he adressen the butler.

“You may leave us, Yates,” he says. “When Master Cormac arrives you may show him in, but until then I will have no interruptions.”

The footman swiftly leaves closing the door behind him with a quiet click and you are left standing in the middle of the room, perplexed. Grandmaster Kenway tidies away the inkwell, paper and the quill. The quietness that befalls the room now everyone has gone makes you itchy. Your heartrate is still racing and you cannot seem to wipe the memory of blood pooling around your feet from your mind. You’re loathe to reveal how frayed your nerves are, though. _Cope with it_ , you tell yourself, and all of a sudden, Kenway is at your side, calling your name.

“Come my dear,” he says soothingly and gently guides you to sit down in a low armchair set beside the fire.

From a small cabinet he produces a fine crystal glass and a carafe containing a dark amber liquid. He quietly fills the glass before handing it to you.

Stuttering, you try to refuse.

“I-I can’t, sir-,” you start, but he stops you.

“I expect you to drink up, miss Devon. You’re as pale as a sheet and I will not have you passing out on me.” His voice does not give room for bartering, nor does the gaze he holds you in. Gingerly you lift the glass and take a sip. The drink burns your mouth and sets fire to your throat as it slides down to your belly. You cough and cannot refer from cringing at the taste. He’s still waiting when you lift your gaze.

“Go on,” he says. “Down in one.”

He draws another armchair up in front of you and takes a seat, while you reluctantly watch the liquid amber in your glass. Eventually you sense his patience waning and hesitantly relent. In a fluid motion, you throw your head back and down the drink, then regret it as your lungs are set ablaze and you cannot breathe.

“Lord, that is too strong for me,” you exclaim when you regain your breath.

“It’s just what you needed,” he says. “Finally there is some color to your cheeks.”

He takes your glass and sets it on a small side table, before resting his eyes back at you. You just manage to wonder for the tenth time this day what he has in store for you and why you are here before he speaks.

“Now,” he says quietly, “how are you really holding up after today’s experience?”

The smell of blood and the image of the assailant’s mangled face flashes before you, and you bite your teeth together before you answer a quiet, ‘Fine, sir’.

Master Kenway snorts in disbelief and you realize the pain you feel must have shown on your face. His eyes grow stormy as his features falls into stern lines.

“Do not attempt to deceive me, Miss Devon,” he says gravely. “I would be a fool not to recognize the way your pulse races or how your complexion contests that of a ghost, let alone the death-grip you keep on your empty fists.”

To make his point evident, he lifts your hands as he speaks, pushes his thumb against the base of your palm and makes you unfurl your tight-knitted fingers. Then he sets to rub the sore muscles of your palms.

His strict reprimand keeps you grounded, keeps the ghastly smell of blood away. Your eyes locks with his and you realize you are staring, but you cannot find it in you to look away. He meets your open gaze, firm and austere as he continues.

“When I ask you a question, I expect a straight answer, miss Devon. No matter how bad you feel about the truth, it is what you will deliver. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Then I ask again; how are you holding up?”

You stare at his stoic expression, at the calm authority he exudes, then flick your eyes away.

“I keep seeing his face,” you say quietly, “and smelling the…”. The words are stuck in your throat and you draw a shuddering breath. The image flashes before you once more and abruptly you stand. Its too hot in front of the fire, to little air in the room. Panicked, you pace a few steps away towards the door, then catch yourself and halt indecisive. You just turned your back at Grandmaster Kenway; walked away in the middle of a conversation.

Clenching your jaw, you turn around and find him standing a foot away.

“I’m sorry, sir,” you say fretfully, “I didn’t mean to-“

“Calm down,” he coos and you cannot refrain from loathing yourself. You are being weak, and now he treats you like a panicked girl, like the panicked little girl you are.

“Don’t!” you say harshly “Do not treat me different than the others.”

Your outburst makes him pause, but only for a second. Then the stoic expression returns as he resolutely grabs your arm and leads you back to your seat by the fire.

“Sit,” he orders, and you do not doubt that it is an order. He stays on his feet and starts pacing the floor in front of you.

“You’ve been through quite the shock today,” he says firmly, “and all the while you wish to be treated as one of my men, you are not.”

You draw a breath to argue, but a single glance from him is enough to change your mind and you stay silent.

“First of all,” he says, “you have barely two years of training and are still just a trainee. You are not expected hold your ground against a seasoned swordsman for years to come, let alone face open combat.” He looks at you while he paces, resolved to beat some sense into your head it seems and you dare not look away. You have braced your luck far enough with him already.

“Secondly,” he continues, “the stiletto you wore is no match for a sabre. Again; you are not expected to fight for your life and you were not equipped for combat.”

You know this already, and the itchy unease makes you want to move, but you stay seated and do not notice the way your knuckles are turning white again as he goes on.

“Thirdly,” he says, “and I list this last because you do defy the odds; your upbringing intended you for a secure and protected position. My men were raised fighting and have had years to come to terms with the risks that entails. Your choice may have been the only rational decision at the time, but today is the first time you faced the reality of that choice.” He takes a seat before you again, picks up your hand and unfurl your fingers.

“What you faced today, was not fair. You were thrown into a hostile situation with no time to prepare, facing terrible odds with less training and insufficient means at your disposal. Do you recognize that?”

Quietly, you nod at him.

“And in that situation, what did you do?” he says.

You look at the hands holding yours, slowly kneading warmth into your fingers.

“What I had to,” you say.

“You fought back,” he says and his voice has dropped to a soft and soothing velvet. “You held your own and you came out alive. At the moment you feel restless and uneasy and your heart is racing; am I right?”

You nod your head and he continues.

“It’s all a natural reaction to the ordeal you’ve been through, and on account of your inexperience it is worse on you than on my men. They have learned to deal with it, and so will you, my dear, but until we can, I have to take care of you.”

A single knock on the door breaks the intimate silence of the room and then the door opens. Shay steps through in hurried strides and master Kenway rises to greet him.

“I heard there was an attempt on your life,” Shay says, his gaze travelling between the Grandmaster and you worriedly.

“There was, but we came through, mostly unharmed,” the Grandmaster says and shifts his gaze to you.

“What happened?”

“The coach was overtaken while on our way through the city. They took us to an enclosed yard where a handful of thugs were waiting for us. There was a skirmish where your girl here shot one of the men and then held her ground against another with nothing but a stiletto. Then Thomas and Charles came to our rescue.”

You stand up as he speaks, walks over to the window to get away from the memory. You open the window a notch to let the clear cold air wash over your face. You can’t wait to go home with Shay, to leave these memories behind. A muttered conversation ensues between the two men, thankfully leaving you out of the gory details until you notice the Grandmaster leaving.

“I’ll make sure your room is ready,” the Grandmaster says as he exits the room and the door slides shut.

Only a moment passes before you feel the solid warmth of Shay against your back. He envelopes you in his arms and your eyes flutter closed at his soothing presence.

“How are you really doing, Love?” he asks quietly and for the first time your composure shatters. You draw an unsteady breath.

“It’s not true, what the Grandmaster said,” you start. “I misfired the gun. The hit was pure coincidence. And I did not hold my own. I tried… did everything I could… and he was just toying with me. If Mr. Hickey and the others had not arrived when they did…”

Shay’s hold on you is tight and secure, his warmth all encompassing and his solid presence comforting. As you stutter to a halt he bends down to breathe a kiss along your jawline.

“Ay,” he breaths gently, “he might have toyed with you, lass, but that became his downfall, too. Your resistance made him ignorant to the danger of delay and as a result, both you and the Grandmaster made it out. You did your best, lass, and today that made a huge difference.”

You blink at his words and feel his lips against your skin, warm and soft, a contrast to the slight abrasiveness of his chin that tickles your skin. Your breath catches in your throat and your already hammering heart picks up pace. Shay’s lips kindles a warmth in your belly but also sets the restless energy on edge. You need to move, but Shay keeps you tethered.

You squirm within his embrace and Shay lets you go, but only enough to turn you around. Then he presses you up against the wall and continues the slow assault on your neck.

“Shay,” you breathe, “Shay I can’t…” But then a pull of teeth on your skin sets your belly momentarily alight, and your mind goes blank.

“O’ course ye can,” his voice rumbles and brings you back to where you are and what he’s doing. Again, you squirm against him rather shocked, but he just presses you to the wall and chuckles lowly.

“Ah, you’re beautiful like this, lass,” he says. “Color high on your cheeks and eyes wide, all itchy and keen, and totally ignorant of how much you need a good rump.”

The length of his body is pressing you to the wall, all hard muscles and sinew strength. He smells of sun and sea and leather, of gun smoke and hard work, but right now a turn in the sack with him is the last thing on your mind. You open your mouth to protest, but then he runs his hands along your waist and up your chest. The protest dies on your lips as your breathing hitches.

“All riled up,” Shay chuckles, “All that pent up emotion ready to burst.”

You _are_ riled up, you realize, your heart is thrumming and his hands on your tits and his mouth against your skin are creating a heavy heat in your belly.

Still you have issues that holds you back. You are in the Grandmaster’s office for Gods sake. What on earth is Shay even thinking?

You grab his wrists and stop him, then catches his gaze intently. 

“You need to stop,” you say, and he actually does at the alarm in your eyes. “We cannot do this here?! Anyone might enter. For Gods sake, Grandmaster Kenway might return.”

There is a devious glimmer in his eyes as his face cracks into a smile. 

“Ye’ think he doesn’t know, Lass? Ye think the Grandmaster doesn’t know what outlet ye need right now?

 _What?_  

Shay chuckles at your incredible expression, then pushes his thumbs against your hardened nipples. The feeling trembles through your body with a wave of warmth that removes all the strength in your knees.

“What do you think the lads do after a run-in with the enemy, when their blood is boiling?” His voice has lowered to something dark and intimate. “The Grandmaster could have done this himself, but he thought you’d be more comfortable with me.”

Your belly is set alight as he continues rubbing tight circles on your hardened nipples. His lips finds the sweet spot on your neck again and you bare your throat at him, falling prey to the rising pleasure he creates. It’s such a relief, such a reprieve from the panic that’s been clawing at your neck the past few hours and the building pressure down below finds purchase as your reasoning is thrown overboard.

You part your legs and squirm against him, trying to find some friction to feed the hunger below. Shay shifts his grip, swiftly hitches you higher, then starts bunching the fabric of your skirt with one hand while the other continues teasing your breast. Your skirt is soon riding high on your hips along with your shift and his fingers finds the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Every brush of calloused fingers up your leg centers attention on your throbbing core and sends a needy moan up your throat.

Shay chuckles at your readiness and continues the relentless tease, ever closer to your need until his fingers are tracing your folds, rubbing little circles on your engorged nub. Your skin is slick from arousal, you’re more than ready for him but still he does not relent. You whimper and buck against him gaining just a little more of the friction you need. Then two fingers glides through your wetness, into the plush warmth. He slides them back and forth before they curl against your inner walls. You keen in gratification as he teases just the right spot inside. Shay curses under his breath as your walls clasp down on his fingers, tries to draw him further in.

“Christ, Lass, ye really need this don’t ye,” he says and moves his fingers slowly. You cry out in frustration at the inadequate pace and finally he relents.

“I know, Lass,” he soothes, “I know.” Then his fingers slide from your core, and he slowly lets you down. You stand on trembling legs as he removes his coat, before his belts and holsters fall to the floor with a heavy thump. Then he wraps you in a one-armed embrace while he unlaces his breeches with one hand, lowering his head to kiss you.

Your lips presses against his in a hungry bout for dominance that you lose the moment his tongue pushes into your mouth. Distantly, you register him steering your gait backwards into the room, but you’re lost in the burning desire and do not care where you are when he hefts you onto the large desk in the middle of the room. You just lean back on your elbows and spread your legs for him as he pushes the skirt up to your waist. Then he lets his erection glide between your folds, coating himself in the fluids there.

You whimper at the contact, too strung up and ready to form coherent words. His gaze is intensely following you, his eyes darker still under his lowered lashes as his gaze travels over your body.

Just as you think you can’t take any more of his teasing, you feel his hard erection against your opening, then he slowly pushes in. You moan needily as your nerve-endings are set alight until he is fully sheathed inside you. Your skin is over sensitized; you cannot seem to breathe as Shay leans over and encase you within his arm. Then he rolls his hips, and your mind momentarily whites out. Insentiently you buck against him, chasing another gratifying high, and he grunts as you feel him twitch.

“Gods, Lass,” you hear him say, before he braces his palms against the desk either side of you. Then he draws out slowly and pushes equally slowly back in. You’re drenched in the pleasure that courses from your belly to your brain as Shay sets to plunder your body. Your whimpers and moans soon fills the room, but you do not care, encased in the simmering bliss where your bodies are joined. He ups the pace in answer to your wordless pleas, pushes into you a little firmer, making your insides clench and flutter with delight, your core singing with each push and stroke. Release comes sudden and intense with white-hot rivets of ice that licks up your spine and renders you speechless, boneless, raw.  Shay draws it out, curses under his breath as your ecstasy clenches down on him in pulses. His pace grows erratic as you come down, your insides fluttering at the still delicious friction he creates and then he buries himself to the hilt. Shay lets out a low sound as you feel him twitch in release as he spills his seed inside you.  His labored breath fills the air. He leans in and you share a slow kiss before you close your eyes when he gently pecks your brow. Then he slowly withdraws and you set to tidy yourself up.

When you are both decent, Shay takes you through the house, guides you with a gentle hand at your back to the first floor of the west wing where the dark polished luster of oak panels and equally carved doors lends a safe and quiet atmosphere to the main corridor. You are fatigued and tired, and pleasantly numb after your bout in the office and all you can think about is finding a bed to curl up in. You’ve never been to this part of the house before but recognize it as the mansions bed room wing and remember the Grandmaster promising Shay to ready a room before he left. You’re relived you don’t have to travel through the city tonight, that you may enjoy the sanctuary of the Grandmasters home.

When Shay finally stops in front of a door, you sigh inwardly in relief. However, as the door opens the Grandmaster and another prominent gentleman stands to greet you.

The Grandmaster has grown good at reading you, or you might just be wearing your heart on your sleeve. Either way he sees the fatigued disappointment that pierces your heart, as he steps forth and takes your hands between his own.

“Do not fret, my dear. Doctor Barton here will see to your wounds and then you’ll rest.” The manner in wich he speaks, the shure grip on your hands and the steady warmth of his gaze all compell you to relax, to take refuge and find safety under his roof. Then he quietly calls the butler.

Yates instantly appears with two maids who are set to help you get ready for bed. Behind a screen, they unties your corset and helps you out of your petticoats and stays. You are given a new shift of fine soft Cotton, and then they put you in a pale blue silk frock, conjured from the Grandmasters closets that leaves you decent enough to face the room.

You’re so tired you feel sluggish, and you’re relived Shay leads you straight to the large bed. He makes you sit on the edge as the Grandmaster comes over with another glass in hand. You crinkle your nose as you recognize the amber liquid inside. The Grandmasters eyes softens in amusement.

“Something to sleep on, my dear,” he says. “You know what to do.”

You sigh as you accept the glass, but swallow the content quickly this time. The glass is removed while you cough as your throat is set ablaze and your eyes water. Then you get to lay down on the bed. You sink into soft feather mattresses and silk covered down pillows as Shay draws the duvet over your feet.  

“I have to borrow Shay a little while, my dear,” the Grandmaster says. “However, Doctor Barton here will stay with you until Shay returns.” 

Lethargically, you nod before Shay kisses your brow and they both leave the room. As Doctor Barton sets to examine your wounds, you sink into the warm and soft bedding and before long, you drift off to sleep.

 


End file.
